


Sore Loser

by SharpestKnife



Series: Brothers and Bedfellows [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Drunken Confessions, Half-Sibling Incest, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Predator/Prey, Teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:45:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Robb plays a cruel game with Jon, and loses very, very badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sore Loser

**Author's Note:**

> Read the follow-up [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/911899). I just reread [my mouth is full of stars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/281200) and realized that it had so much influence on this, it's embarrassing. Please read it once you're done here. It's the undisputed behemoth of all Jon/Robb fics, and for good reason. Bring tissues.

Robb hadn't really noticed how it started, and he wouldn't even know how to pray to the gods for forgiveness since he can't even put his sin into words, not even in his head. He'd always thought Jon was pretty, knew that the girls simpered and fawned over him even as he brooded and stalked about the castle in sullen oblivion.

And one day he just began seeing more prettiness about his brother, finding new things to praise about him, like the dejected hunch of his shoulders when Sansa snaps at him, or the tense line of his back with every one of Greyjoy's ill-timed snipes. Little things like that he could think of as brotherly affection, but when Robb finds himself droning out conversation to stare into Jon's eyes, or when his own eyes drift down to admire his pretty mouth, it's all Robb can do not to offer his dangling bits as a gift on the altar of the Stranger, or the Crone, or whoever it is of the new gods that presides over everything that could possibly go horribly wrong between brothers.

Constant proximity doesn't help matters. Jon trailed after Robb like a lost pup, and he didn't begrudge him this because he was admittedly very fond of his brother, though it disturbed him to no end that his fondness was beginning to express itself in new and entirely profane ways. Time was when Jon would strip to his waist after hours in the yard and Robb would think nothing of it. Jon needed a breather and that's all it was. Now, it's a struggle not to stare at the planes of his smooth chest, or the corded muscle in his arms, or the bulge in his…

"You alright there, Robb?"

Robb swears that Jon caught him staring, but if he did, his brother is too kind or too dense to give any indication. He forces his eyes to the ground and squeezes out a smile.

"Fine, I'm fine," he says, weakly raising a hand. Jon's not convinced and now he's coming closer.

He's barely an arm away and his belly, the muscle at his hip, they're so close, and Robb can smell the sweat and leather. A thin sheen glosses all over his body and Robb tries hard to look away, catching maids huddled outside the kitchens jostling for a glimpse of young Jon Snow's hardening body, and some of them are nodding at each other and in Robb's direction because he's just realized he's blushing.

"Are you sure you're fine, Robb?"

He does his damnedest not to look up but knows it would be impolite not to, and so he does, and even Jon's face is slick, his dark hair clinging to his brow, and his mouth, gods, that mouth. Jon is prettiest like this, he thinks, and then his lip upturns into a questioning pout and he's somehow prettier still. Robb feels a stiffening in his breeches, and now he can't get away. He reaches for his head and runs his fingers through his hair, feigning illness.

"I'm. I'm fine," he stammers. "I think I'm just dizzy. The heat."

"Oh. For a minute there I thought I'd just worn you out." Jon winks. Robb struggles to look away and just cradles his face in his hands. He feels Jon's warm, rough hand on his head and it's mussing his hair, and the touch of him is searing and sets blood rushing to his face, then plummeting to his hips. He swears he hears squeals and tittering from the kitchens and now everyone knows, and he's blushing his hardest.

"What's got into them?" He raises his head and catches Jon turning away. _The seven be praised for your thick skull_ , he thinks, and it's his chance to run, and so he does, limping and hunching at a painful angle. He looks behind him as he hobbles off and Jon's cocking an eyebrow at him, his face curious, a bemused smile playing on his lips, and Robb knows he needs to get to his bedchambers before he embarrasses himself all over his trousers.

*******

The feast is in full bloom and the hall is filled with the sounds of merrymaking, or at least the bawdy songs and rowdy cheers that pass for it. The noise is just something that Lady Stark has become accustomed to, comforting and familiar, quite unlike the sight of Jon Snow, who she fixes with a withering stare even as they sit a room apart. Robb catches the glare and follows it to Jon, who is far too busy wolfing what looks like half of a chicken to notice.

Robb tentatively turns to his mother and she's thankfully switched to hushed conversation with his father, and so he sets his sights back on Jon, who has elected just this time to stare back at him. He smiles over the hunk of meat, his lips wrapping over the bone and sucking at the juices, mouth loose and happy, white teeth tearing. Something about his hunger and his reckless appetite has the hair on Robb's nape bristling.

Jon puts down the chicken and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and there's a spark in his eye, and Robb can see even from this distance that there are bits of meat stuck in the growth of his beard. Robb can't help but smile at his brother's boyishness and he makes a small gesture. Jon passes his fingers over his chin, picks out the offending strings of meat, and his shoulders shake in a fit of giggles. _He's well and truly soused_ , Robb thinks.

There's that wink again. Jon raises his cup and grins, and Robb feels another hot flush sweep over his face. He knows it's an innocent gesture, they've exchanged winks hundreds of times. It means nothing, but Robb's arousal says his cock thinks it probably might. He looks down at his hands as they grasp white-knuckled at the high table.

He sneaks another glance at Jon from under his hair, and it's back on his face, that same inquisitive curve on his lips. Robb turns his attention back to his wine for the rest of the evening, not daring to look up and hoping the drink will wash out the warmth in his loins, to replace it with a warmth in his belly.

*******

Robb fights the buzz of the wine as he kicks off his boots, grumbling through the beginnings of a pounding headache. His chambers are warm and Grey Wind is already settled into the hearth, quietly pleased that his master is back. Robb stubs him affectionately with his toe and the wolf nudges back, yawns, then falls gently asleep.

He's tired, but it's too early to sleep and he's bloody well not in the mood to go looking for Jon for fear of what he might do. He leans back on his bed and his head smacks painfully against the headboard. He sighs and makes a half-hearted attempt to shrug his shirt off. It thinks otherwise and catches firmly around his head.

He hears a chuckle from the door and panics. "Go on, Stark, give it all the fight you've got," Jon says.

Robb struggles to get it off and freezes halfway. _He can see me naked_ , he realizes. _Well, half of me, but still_. He blushes from the safety of his tangled shirt and surrenders. Too many little defeats today. "I think I'm stuck."

There's a dreadful silence before he hears Jon shut the door, then the heavy fall of his boots as he crosses the floor. Robb wonders if his brother is looking at him the same way he was staring in the yard, and suddenly the shirt flies off his head.

He's treated to a view of Jon's ruddy face, and it's close, and his grin is looser, warmer than usual. "What would you do without me, Stark?" He shakes his head. Robb can hear him trying to shuck off his boots with his feet. He notices Ghost slink into Grey Wind's side and wonders how he hadn't heard the great beast come in with his master.

Jon slumps against Robb's shoulder, making a low whine as he tries to find a comfortable position. Jon gets just a little needier when he's drunk, and Robb finds that he doesn't quite mind. He finally settles down into the crook between Robb's arm and chest. Jon's head, his neck, his back are churning with fire, and that now too familiar feeling comes rushing back to Robb's groin and he tells himself that it's just the wine, and it probably is, because Jon is lolling his head back to stare at him.

"What've you been on about, Stark?" he slurs. His face is open, inquisitive. "Feels like you're avoiding me a bit."

Robb forces a smile. "It's nothing, Jon. I'm just tired, I guess. And a bit drunk."

Jon laughs from deep inside his chest and it rumbles against Robb's body, and it's all Robb can do not to throw his hands over him to… Stop him from shaking. Yes, that's it.

"I'm drunk too."

Robb stretches his arm around Jon's shoulder, and when there's no protest, lays a hand on his waist. "I can tell."

Another chuckle. "As long as I know you're not avoiding me," he says. "I don't like it when we don't talk." Jon's voice is hushed, almost sweet. He rolls his head back to look at Robb again with those eyes, and Robb thinks he's pretty like this, blushing and wanton and loose, and there's the smallest quiver in Jon's lip.

"You'll tell me if there's anything wrong, yeah?"

Robb nods, and he panics when Jon raises a finger to stroke the underside of his chin.

"Stark."

"Hm… Huh?" It's a pitiful response, but it serves its purpose.

"When'd you get so pretty?"

And suddenly it's not just a finger but Jon's full, strong hand on his cheek, and it's stroking his face, rubbing rough fingers against his beard, and Robb thinks that this is impossible, it's not happening, and wrong, wrong, wrong. He can't stop himself from bringing his head lower to push against Jon's touch, and he angles his face for his brother's soft, slick mouth, and…

He's asleep. The bastard's asleep.

Robb feels a dull ache in his trousers and a hot swell of rejection. He hates that it makes him feel like a spurned child, that he was taunted with a sweet, or a shiny new toy, and it was just prised cruelly out of his fingers. For all the hell he's given Theon, Robb now keenly understands how the ironborn must feel when he barrels uninvited into his bedchambers to complain drunkenly, bitterly about a failed night of whoring.

Robb stares darkly at the limp, snoring heap that's pooled contentedly into his lap and he can't help but feel more than a little slighted. He knows Jon is drunk, tired, and it's not his fault, but they were so close. Gods, were they close. He could feel his breath against his chin, felt Jon's grip on his face, hard and hot, and just like that, the bastard had blacked out.

He shoves Jon to his side of the bed and slides down onto the pillow, grumbling. Jon doesn't wake but there's an instinct even in sleep to follow wherever Robb goes, and his hands search for his waist, circle his hips, and pull him in. Robb flushes and his skin prickles from the touch, but now he's trapped and he can't even settle his bruising hardness, and the heir of Winterfell's pout is so great that his face very nearly collapses on itself.

He stares hard at the ceiling, defiant of the gods' punishment, and crosses his arms over his chest. Jon moans softly and his hand darts out, dips dangerously close to his waist, and his fingers are almost brushing at his cock, but they stop just above the line of his breeches. Robb is so incensed that the sky itself could burst into flame from his glare, and it takes the better part of an hour for his arousal to wane, and even longer to fall asleep.

*******

 _It isn't fair_ , Robb thinks as he stalks the hall. _Not fair_ , and it annoys him that he's giving in to being a brat but he wanted it so much, and he knew that Jon wanted it too. His boots hit the stone floor so hard that it sends him on such a pace, and he stumbles to a halt when Jon suddenly materializes.

The brazen, vaguely confident Jon of last night is gone, and he's back to being the stuttering young Maiden. Jon looks up at Robb through his lashes and his hand goes up to fiddle with his hair. Gods, he's pretty when he's sad, and something in Robb stirs, but he forces tension into his spine and hardens against whatever Jon has coming.

"Listen," Jon mumbles. "I'm sorry about last night."

Robb just stares and Jon barely moves, but he can see him wilting. He looks at the ground, scanning for words on the stone tile. "I didn't mean for it to happen."

And Robb's still staring. _At least he's sorry about falling asleep_. Jon's squirming now.

"I understand if you're mad at me. Just… I won't try it again."

And Robb thinks hard before he speaks, because it's how he's been raised, and he doesn't speak, because _Did he say "try"? What in seven hells does he mean by "try"?_

Jon's barely just whispering now. "I know you won't forgive me. I was weak. I won't try it again."

 _He knows I want to, he has to know. And he wants it too. Why doesn't he just say so?_ Robb sighs in exasperation and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't need to see, he already knows that Jon is crumpling in dismay, and if this carries on, that dejection and self-pity is going to give way to anger, and it'll be another scuffle between them and Robb's had it and he's already setting off on his heels.

He hears Jon struggle to match his pace behind him, and his brother never has to try very hard. He's leaner and faster, and Robb hears him suck in his breath to say something else. He whips about to stop him.

"No, Jon." It flies out of his mouth before he has time to think, and already he regrets it, but the words are forcing their way through his lips, so he spits them. "I don't care. I don't want to hear it."

The words have their intended effect. Jon's chest heaves and he's an abandoned pup for all of one second, and right on cue, the rejection hits like a slap in the face, and his body's rigid and his face is a scowl. And Robb knows it's terribly inappropriate but he looks beautiful like this, too. Jon fixes him with a look to strip flesh from bone, then turns and stalks away.

Robb's too angry to deal with it and he keeps walking, back to his bedchambers, to the sept, it doesn't matter, and he thinks to himself how awfully pigheaded his brother can be, how thick and dense Jon can get. Suddenly his urges don't matter and he feels like playing a wicked game, and he won't say what he wants but gods he's going to draw it out, and coax it like sweet venom out of Jon's mouth, make him take the knee and _beg_ for it, and in spite of himself, Robb goes hard again.

Out of nowhere, Arya skids into view. Her mouth flies open and he knows she's just about to call out his name and ask him for something or another, and he just drops his hands vaguely over his breeches, looks straight ahead and turns the corner. From somewhere behind him, Arya mutters. "Rude."

*******

He found Jon the next day sulking around the stables. He didn't have anything to do there but Robb knew that he was trying to get away, and Jon busied himself by angrily rearranging a stack of hay and not really getting anywhere. Robb had watched him fumble with the straw, saw the frustration in his shoulders, and he shouldn't have, but he couldn't help but laugh. Jon looked at him through that same old scowl, but he couldn't help himself either, and soon the two of them were laughing, for no other reason than the pleasure of each other's company, and things were all right again.

Now they're in the godswood. Robb really knows he shouldn't be playing this game anymore, but there's still a boy somewhere inside of him and the thrill is too great. They're stripped to their small clothes and soaking in the pool, and it should be comfortable and so bloody normal if they weren't so keenly aware of each other's bodies.

Robb catches Jon casting furtive glances at his body, and he sees a thrilling blush flower from his chest to his face. Jon's looking away now and staring at nothing, but the blush is still there, and Robb allows himself the tiniest smile. He reaches over his shoulder and plays at rubbing his back, and yes, Jon's watching him again, and he doesn't seem to be aware that the edge of his tongue is running over the plumpness of his lower lip.

"Something hurts back here," Robb says. "Must be a bruise or something. You really shouldn't be so rough with me, Snow."

Jon flusters. "Rough with… What do you mean?"

Robb fights the urge to smile again. "In the yard. You know, where we practice. Every day. You're always pounding away at me."

Jon swallows slowly and when he speaks, it's a whisper. "No I'm not."

Robb turns his back and grins against the grove. He feels Jon's eyes boring through him like heated lances. "Look for me, won't you? It's probably your fault anyway. It's stiff and all, maybe you can rub it until it's tender again." _Gods, I'm good at this_.

There's a tense hesitation and Robb thinks that Jon's too virtuous even for this, but he feels motion in the water and then Jon is breathing steadily just behind him.

"Where." His voice is hoarse and choked.

"I can't reach it. Somewhere on my back. Lower. No, lower." Jon's hand trails down until it's hovering just gingerly over the base of his hip. It's a calculated sigh that Robb eases out, but he notices that his waist is moving beyond his control, and somehow his back is now pressed against Jon's front, and his chest, and his belly, and something besides.

"Yes, right there. Harder."

And Jon is rubbing just at the root of his back, and now it's two rough hands stroking over him, and Jon's breathing is stifled. Robb turns his head and Jon's eyes are fixed on the small of his back, and his jaw is loose, and gods how Robb wants it, but wants to play with him a little more. He twists around suddenly and Jon's eyes flit up to his face. His hands are poised just above Robb's hips, and his head is craning ever closer, his gaze unfocused and dark.

With tremendous restraint, Robb smoothly brings his mouth away and buries it in the hollow of Jon's neck. Jon gasps softly and Robb's name spills out of his mouth. Robb runs his nose and his lips tenderly over the smooth skin of Jon's neck, and he's watching Jon's face and it's a portrait of complete surrender. His tongue flicks out at Jon's throat and his brother shudders. Robb leans in and grazes with his teeth, then bites and sucks, wet noises up and down the length of his neck. His brother trembles under his mouth, and it feels like the pool and the godswood have dropped off the face of the world, and all that's left is the rustle of leaves and Jon's quiet, tiny whimpers.

He feels Jon's hands traveling slowly up his body, callouses etching roughly into his skin until they cradle his face. Jon's looking at him again, and his mouth is so close. It's wrong, and filthy, and again Robb has flaunted his arrogance in the face of the gods, old _and_ new, and he wrenches away from Jon's grasp. His brother's body is still poised to touch him and take him with his mouth. Jon's face is different yet again, hurt, utterly confused, and yes, there it is, _aching_.

Robb practically leaps out of the pool. "Gods, I just remembered. Father wanted to see me today. He'll be so cross. I'll see you back at the castle?" He's throwing his clothes on and everything's clinging to wet skin, and Jon's still standing in the pool, wet and abandoned.

And it has to be timed so well for the mummer's farce to succeed so Robb pushes briskly through the grove without turning back, swallowing as he ignores the hardness in his trousers. _A game well-played_ , he thinks, and he's almost out of the godswood, walking so fast that he almost jumps when someone steps out from behind a tree.

Of course it has to be Theon. The ward slumps against the tree, arms folded and eyes traveling far, far too slowly up Robb's body, until they come to rest in a half-lidded stare right into his face. The edge of Theon's mouth creases, and Robb just knows that there'll be trouble.

"Had a good swim, then?"

Robb nods, and again his hands are fluttering uselessly about his waist. That worked with Arya, she's so innocent, and just a child, but Theon knows better, and he just looks long and hard — and Robb's panicking again — at the front of his breeches. He's grinning in the way that always makes Robb want to throttle him, and Robb was wrong about the trouble because Theon's smile is saying that this has just blossomed into a massive fucking disaster. He makes a non-committal sound and bolts out of the godswood, dragging along the fractured remains of his dignity and yet another unattended erection.

*******

Robb's back in his chambers and planted at his desk, trying his hardest to bury his nose in scripture. He's been sitting in the chair for hours and his clothes are dry at last, but the taste of Jon's skin is still on his lips. His mind is playing out the dozens of ways his day at the godswood could have ended and his stomach twists with yearning. He clears his throat and draws the book closer to his face. The words are writing out prayers to the seven but all he sees in his head is Jon's body slick and strong in the water. He blinks hard and the picture doesn't vanish, and he thinks of dead kittens, Old Nan, Hodor naked, and barely anything works and he's still stiff against the front of his breeches. A knock on the doorframe jolts him.

It's Theon. "What are you doing in here then? Your puppy's out there stabbing at hay with a broadsword. Looks to me like he'd really much rather be stabbing you."

Robb throws him a warning glare and Greyjoy grins, throwing up his hands in a pacifying gesture.

"Sorry, milord," he drawls through his lopsided smile. "You Stark boys are no fun when you're angry." He ambles over and Robb notices how he doesn't walk, only swaggers. There's an easy, casual roll in his hips, and he finds it difficult to look away.

"Why so quiet?" he says. He arches his infuriating face into Robb's, taunting. "You _are_ fighting, aren't you? Little boys and your problems." Theon's standing behind Robb now, hips pushed against the back of his chair. "You're not really reading, are you?"

Robb's still too angry, or too aroused to make conversation, and he can't quite drum up the spirit to bark Theon out of his room, but maybe he doesn't want to.

"Fine, don't talk." Robb feels a rough hand on his shoulder, feels Theon slide a finger up the crease of his neck and scratch at the crook of his ear. When he speaks it's a command. "Keep reading."

Out of nowhere there's a mouth on Robb's ear, and Theon's tracing the lines of him with his tongue, nipping at him hungrily. His breath is hot and clipped, and Robb can't help but lean into him.

Theon's voice is husky now, and the whisper comes rough and low. "I always wanted to bring you to the brothels, and I figure it's better if you don't embarrass me when we go." He pauses and Robb swears he can hear him sneering. "Besides, I've seen the way you look at the bastard." Robb bridles at the word, but he doesn't resist. "Can't go embarrassing yourself around him either."

A hand snakes down to Robb's thigh and rubs painfully between him. Theon digs his palm down and makes no move to unlace his breeches, and Robb realizes it's because he knows he doesn't have to, and _fuck_ Theon but he won't fight, can't stop, not now. "I saw you two, you know. In the godswood." He's scraping with his nails now, and it doesn't hurt any more than Robb's urgent need for release. "What would your father think?"

Robb doesn't answer.

Theon's other hand has found its way to his mouth, and it's tracing over his lip, its roughness threatening and crude. "Is this what you want your brother to do to you?" The finger slips in, and Robb can't move. "How you want him to touch you?" Robb hears Theon grinning, and he's ashamed when it does nothing to stay his arousal.

Theon chuckles, full and raspy. "I didn't know you boys had it in you. That's far filthier than I can ever hope to be." Robb gasps when he feels teeth grazing his ear, and Theon's finger is salty and wet when it swirls across his lip. "Think of his mouth, Lord Stark." And he does.

"Greyjoy…" It comes out pleading around the hook of Theon's finger, weak. Theon's tongue is laving the inside of his ear, and he's matched the cadence of the stroke of his hand, and it's so good, it's all too much, and he's so close.

"Robb?" And it's not Theon's voice. Robb's eyes flutter open and he sees Jon at the door. A final stroke of Theon's hand and he's brought to release.

The world turns white. Robb slumps forward and his head sways unsteadily. "Jon." It's a greeting, and a prayer.

Jon's shoulders are shaking, his eyes narrow and his mouth wet like an open wound, and when his face twists into a scowl, Robb knows it's because of the way Theon's looking at him.

Theon's taunt is ragged, victorious. The whisper of conquest rings loud in Robb's ear. "I had him first, Snow."

Robb braces for Jon to charge Theon like he always does, but the attack doesn't come. He's never seen him so hurt, and Robb wants to hold him and squeeze all the pain out of his body until there's nothing left. And gods, _gods_ what Robb wouldn't give to drink all the sadness spilling out of him, to caulk over the cracks in his pride with kisses and half-whispered apologies, but it's too late and the doorway is empty again.

A final possessive bite nips at Robb's ear. "There goes your Maiden, Stark. I'd chase him if I were you." And just like that, because he has to beat Jon at everything, Theon's done, and he strolls out of the chamber with an even bigger swagger in his step.

Robb isn't angry. Greyjoy is a bastard in a completely different sense, but Robb wanted it too. He knows it's not nearly enough of an explanation. He was weak. It wasn't enough that he was thinking of Jon the whole time, that he sputtered his name like a stricken lover when he'd come. Robb finally looks back at his book and groans. He'd committed so many blasphemies this week alone that he deserved all the torture the gods could rain on him.

*******

Jon doesn't come to the Great Hall that night. Robb still has nothing better beyond a lame apology in his head, and he should know better. He's supposed to be the one who's good with words, but it's so hard when it comes to Jon, who says less with his mouth than he does with his body, or his face. It's too difficult to penetrate him when he puts up a shield thicker, wider and icier than the Wall itself.

Robb slumps against Jon's door. It's locked and he's been knocking for minutes. There's a plate of food in one hand and knuckles full of splinters in the other, and it's only when Robb starts tentatively banging his forehead against the door that he hears the bolt slide. The door opens, but it's the tiniest crack.

He sees Jon standing there, and he's right about the Wall. Jon's eyes have turned to stone, and so has the rest of his face. It's Robb's turn to squirm now.

"I brought you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry," Jon says. His response is hoarse, and too cold.

"Fine," Robb says. "This isn't about the food. I want to talk to you." Silence. He leans his forehead against the door, wishes it was Jon's face instead. "Jon. Please." The door swings back suddenly and Robb is tumbling right into Jon's body. It's stiff and guarded, and his hands are fists at his side. Not a good start at all.

Robb shuts the door and tosses the plate onto a table. The words come flooding out and for once he's glad he doesn't have to think on them. "I didn't mean to."

"Yet you didn't stop him."

Robb runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Because you didn't want to. With me."

Something small shifts in Jon's face, but the ice doesn't melt. Robb presses his advantage. He steps forward and their faces are so close now. "That other night. I really wanted to, Jon. Gods strike me down if I'm lying. That's why I was angry."

The blow is sudden and swift. Jon's always been quicker, and in one movement he's shoved Robb onto the bed. Jon doesn't go further, just seethes and stares at him, and somehow the tense anticipation is so much worse than a punch to the face.

"Why didn't you tell me." It's not a question, it's a demand.

Robb grits his teeth. "It got out of hand. You teased me so I took the chance and teased you right back. You're so bloody thick sometimes. I thought you were playing with me." The blood rushes to his face yet again, and it's another of his familiar new embarrassments. He's almost ashamed when he realizes it's an admission of guilt. Perhaps it's an apology as well. Jon's too kind, too gentle to play such silly games. He just didn't know. Now it's all coming together and Robb feels horrid for having thought otherwise.

Jon's face is dark and set. His eyes are back on the floor and he's frowning. "I wasn't teasing, Robb. I was drunk. You'll pardon me for falling asleep in your fucking lap." His hands uncurl into claws, then ball back into fists. Robb sees the bite marks from the godswood on Jon's neck, just under his collar, and he fills with shame, guilt, and a glimmer of lust.

And Robb notices that his brother is lovely even in rage, comes to understand that perhaps any trace of emotion is enough to stretch his face into something that is impossibly more gorgeous. He thinks of how Jon would look pressed underneath him, how his eyes and mouth would shift if they strained from pleasure instead of anger, and he shudders, and it's so terribly timed, because Jon is very, _very_ angry.

"I didn't mean to take it so far," Robb says, and he hears how pathetic he sounds, halfway between a plea and a whimper. Jon is winning now. He's beating him at his own game. Jon was never very good at losing. There's a competitive streak in there, rough and feral, and it may take him time to strike back, but this wasn't Jon anymore. It's a predator baring its fangs, and now Robb has to deal with its hunger.

Jon finally turns his eyes to Robb, and they're black and hot. Floorboards creak as he paces towards the bed. "So this was a game." His face is stony and grim, lip upturned as if he's biting. Robb swears he can hear him growl under his breath, and for a moment he thinks he sees wolf blood in the gleam of his gaze and the swiftness of his movement. He fights to look away and cannot; he's caught in the trap.

"Now Greyjoy's had you. He's taken you from me." Robb hears the hurt tinge the anger in his voice, and now the wolf has come to claim the carcass. "Not fair." Robb shudders at the echo. Nevermind that he's a bastard, they really were brothers.

"You're mine, Stark. Mine." The way Jon looks at him, Robb feels like a rack of meat splayed out on the bed. He thinks back to the chicken and panics. Robb inches back and clatters against the headboard, and there's nowhere else to go.

"I was thinking of you, Jon." Robb's pleading now, and this is his try at amnesty, but the pardon doesn't come and the bed dips when Jon gets on it, and the line of his shoulders is tense. He doesn't break contact as he approaches and his answer snarls out through gritted teeth.

"I don't care." His forehead is wet and it pushes against Robb's too forcefully, and it hurts, but Robb knows he deserves it. "I don't want to hear it." And in a single harsh motion Jon's mouth sets on Robb's lips, and his teeth are sharp, and gods it's so much better than he imagined. Jon's kiss is voracious and deep, and he draws blood but the assault doesn't slow. His tongue searches hungrily through the taste of iron and his breath is ragged, angry, growling. Robb leans in for more, and Jon's head suddenly drops, and his teeth are closing around his neck, biting and sucking, and Robb throws his head back.

Jon's grinding against his hips now, and it's all Robb can do not to scream. He catches a flash of Jon's eyes as he ruts and there's no trace of man or boy in him. Even the smell of him is different, a haze of musk and reckless desperation. Jon strips off his shirt in a swift motion, and Robb blinks and he doesn't know if Jon did it with his hands or his teeth, but his clothes are already in shreds or all over the bed and his soft underbelly, no, everything is exposed, and Jon means to consume him, all of him. He feels Jon's hardness press against him and he moans at the ceiling, offers wordless thanks to the gods, and it's his hundredth blasphemy and Jon's teeth are at his throat again.

He whimpers at Jon's touch and he feels fingers probing at his entrance, sliding forcefully into him, and he doesn't know if it's balm or ointment or gods forbid chicken grease but it's warm and it's fucking good. His head is shrouded in the moist, blistering cloud of Jon's heat, and he very nearly screams when Jon enters him, full and long. A moan threatens to well up from his throat, and Jon's mouth is on him again, drinking his voice, his breath, everything, and it hurts, but it's rich and exquisite. The bed shakes with each of Jon's ferocious thrusts and he's grunting, grinding the very life out of him, and all at once Robb feels closer to death and more alive than ever.

Robb blinks away hot tears and he sobs into Jon's mouth. The tension in Jon's body suddenly melts, and for a moment he's nothing but a helpless pup all over again. He slows his thrusts and his whispers are urgent, his touch humming with warmth and tenderness. "No more games, Robb," he mouths against his cheek, his lips burning hot and soft over his skin. Jon grazes his ear with sharp teeth, and he whispers once more, and this time it's throaty, commanding. "No more games." Robb hisses his assent, digging his nails into his brother's back. _Mine_. He twines his legs about his waist and pulls him in tighter, yes, Jon, gods, _all_ of you inside me, and Jon groans his name as he spends in searing threads deep into Robb's body.

Jon quivers as the last of his seed leaves him and he slowly, heavily collapses onto Robb. Robb savors the heat of him, the sweat of Jon's torso mingling with his, and he feels every desperate gasp leaving his brother's body course through him, as if Jon was breathing for them both. Robb is sore, and he's lost at his own game, but it barely matters now. He strokes the wetness of Jon's curls and angles him gently to look at him, and yes, Jon is most beautiful in this.

Robb forgets, for a moment, that he still aches for release, and takes the time to drink in his brother's face. There's a tremor in Jon's dark lashes, his brows creased and glossed with sweat, his wet mouth slack and inviting, his handsome face lined with guilt and desperation and all the pleasure there is. And Robb can't help himself. "Gods," he whispers.

"What is it?" Jon asks, the words forced out through exhausted pants.

"It's nothing," Robb says, and as he watches Jon's eyes flutter open, filled with longing and concern, he realizes, it's everything.

Jon brings a hand to Robb's cheek and strokes gently, and Robb pushes against its roughness and its strength. "Did… Did I hurt you?"

"No, no you didn't. And if you did, I probably deserved it."

Jon chuckles and buries his head in the crook of Robb's neck. He murmurs into his shoulder. "You probably did." He lifts his head again and stares. The storm is gone and his eyes are clearer now. "Was it good?"

Robb watches his brother's vulnerable, expectant face, Jon's eyes searching longingly for an answer, and he's tempted to wound him again just to see those familiar sullen features, but decides against it. He responds, for once, with the truth, and it tumbles out of him like water from a brook. "It was brilliant."

And it's all worth it when Jon's face breaks into sunlight, eyes sparkling with satisfaction and a smile wide enough to shatter the walls. His chest swells with pride, and Robb swears he sees Jon's curls bristle with pleasure. Robb slides his thumb over the wetness of Jon's mouth and draws his chin closer.

Jon's expression changes sharply and it's back to a mask of grim determination. He pulls his face gently out of Robb's hand and sits up, his torso puffed with indignation. "I haven't completely forgiven you, you know."

Robb doesn't believe him, but he lets Jon believe it, and he strokes languidly at the veins in his brother's arms. He laughs inwardly and arranges his face into guilt, screwing his mouth into a gentle pout, bowing his head and looking up through his lashes. _Have a taste of your own medicine, Snow_. And something in Jon's expression changes again, softens.

Jon nods slowly. "But I suppose you've learned your lesson." He slides his rough hands up to Robb's chest, then traces his fingers down the edges of him, down his stomach, coming to rest gently at the aching space just under his waist.

"Jon, what are you…"

And Robb gasps in pleasure as Jon bows his head and takes him fully into his mouth, into those bite-swollen lips, and it's the best feeling in the world, or second best perhaps. A voice in his head tells him that he wants to see Jon's face in this too, to marvel at its beauty as he slides through yet another spectrum of emotions, but Jon's mouth is so clumsy, so wet and warm, and it's _Jon's mouth_. Robb finally surrenders. 

He stretches his arms above him and turns into the pillow. He closes his eyes and listens to the soft, wet noises, the hushed groans that rumble from deep inside Jon's chest, and Robb can't help but arch his hips ever so slightly, can't help but whimper. As Jon teases the life out of every bit of his length with his tongue and his lips and gods, those teeth, Robb sees his face, soft and hungry and loose in his mind's eye, and he thinks that yes, this, this is pretty, too.


End file.
